


A Dash of Rebellion

by Austennerdita2533



Category: The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: A little longing, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe-Historical/Victorian Era, Alternate Universe-Human, Banter, Duty vs. Inclination, F/M, Forbidden Love, Humor, Slow-ish Burn?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 13:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13636899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Austennerdita2533/pseuds/Austennerdita2533
Summary: At twenty-years-old, Caroline Forbes is Queen of the United Falls and Sir Niklaus Mikaelson is Head of her Queen's Guard. Where she faces pressure from everyone around her to rule, curb conflict, remain true to her principles, and marry; he battles his past and faces the world with emotions reinforced in steel so nothing can touch him. Though they approach problems and their solutions differently, they live by the same "duel me if you dare" mantra and find that a little conflict may be precisely what they both need.(Victorian Era AU set in Europe)





	A Dash of Rebellion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatsanotherlovestory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsanotherlovestory/gifts).



> This idea more or less steamrolled out of me and melded into its own lots-of-plot-and-slow-ish-burn thing, so I only hope there's enough fluff and banter for you here to feel moderately satisfied when you reach the end. I did my best to take your preferences into consideration and pray you like it because I've had a blast creating this universe. So much, in fact, that I have no choice but to write more for this AU in the future.
> 
> Enjoy! xx

Every true knight hankered for a dash of rebellion, the sword at his side becoming a clashing steel appendage forged in his grip to teach him the art of dance amid skirmishes with all the opponents he’d encounter at royal court or in the throes of militant war throughout his lifetime. And cumbersome, draining though it was, he always brandished his blade in front of his chest so no one could clip him hard enough to knock him off his feet. For that was the trick and the skill of a swordsman, was it not? Learning how to slice or shield well enough to keep himself standing. Knowing how or when to maneuver so blood never dripped from his armor, so it never puddled onto the ground between his fallen knees as they surrendered to the grass with a _clunk_ of defeat. 

With a grin, a furtive glint in his eyes, plus a flick of his hand that encouraged an attack, every true knight welcomed a new threat. He was adrenalized by the prospect of another battle, of another heart riddled through with want of bloodshed. He was vigilant in both his watchfulness and in his taunting ‘ _duel me if you dare_.’ He invited the world to strike out against his back with duplicity and deceit, with cunning that trundled open before his tripped-up, yet still pursuing, feet. He goaded his enemies to best him—or to die trying.

Sir Niklaus Mikaelson was no exception to this rule. 

In fact, as Head of the Queen’s Guard in the United Falls (which was a distinguished position in general, but since he was only twenty-five, and had been in charge of the country’s whole military outfit for six years now, was a historical honor as well), he reveled in the opportunity to break insurrection against the spine of his kingdom’s mountain-peaked laws. He thrilled in the chase of his challengers, focus and bloodlust curling beneath his tongue until dissent slipped down his throat with a grunt and he won. And won he surely did: like an iron thrust-and-slit to the gut.

It’s how he’d acquired the epithet, Red Wolf. The realm’s subjects forever marveling at how he managed to hunt down the worst of the worst offenders to the crown with a maddening glee and voraciousness that bordered on savage: his victorious knuckles stained red with ambition, his stormblue eyes bottomless pits which teemed full of some hellish tearing and teething determination to prevail. They gasped then gossiped about how he quelled attacks from the Quarterlands in the south with Machiavellian strategy, guile, and equanimity. Wondering all the while, of course, if perhaps he was born with a rapier’s hilt fused into his fist because it seemed as if he’d always known the most devastating way to wield it. They believed that was the reason why he never lost. How, despite all the swirling turmoil and conflict of the past years under Queen Elizabeth first, then Queen Caroline second, that’s why he never fell. It’s why they’d assumed he never would. 

If only the people endeavored to veer closer, however, they’d no doubt discover he’d fallen already. Worse than fallen, truth be told. For— 

_He’d been fatally wounded, you see, with no hope for recovery._

__

The wind stirred with a frigid gust one January mid-afternoon, plump snowflakes trickling down from the blustery gray clouds above to moisten and redden the cheeks of five young ladies—the Queen plus her four ladies-in-waiting—who commandeered their white mares through a copse of tall pines at a leisurely trot through the park behind the palace, their mirthful voices bouncing with the frivolities and musings of youth. Far from the palace walls, most of the ladies rode astride and were adorned in tailored riding habits which highlighted one or more of their illustrious traits.

Lady Katerina Petrova, Baroness of Moonstone, for instance, struck an eye-stopping figure in her audacious red silk petticoat with silver galloon trim and fur adornments; while her cousin, Lady Elena Gilbert of Dos Salvatore, faded into the landscape with her tight russet jacket and felted sateen skirt as she perched on her side saddle. Magical in a plum chemisette with flared sleeves, Lady Bonnie Bennett of Ascendant donned a matching hat with a splotched sheer veil and leather gloves, maneuvering her steed with natural surety. The Marquess’s daughter of Orleans Original, Lady Rebekah Mikaelson, sported a fancy velvet ensemble trimmed in olive green and large gold buttons which ran down the center of the jacket and around the cuffs to show off her splendor. And, also, her prestige. The Queen herself sparkled with carefree good humor amid her companions this day, the sheening navy of her petticoat fanning out over her horse’s back like a rippling wave on the Atlantic sea. The effect, much like the lady herself, was equally as graceful as it was mercurial. 

All of them were pleased to take in the lovely winter day, and one another’s company.

“I never expected such a competitive suit for my hand between two brothers, so I cannot begin to imagine what miseries you must be suffering, Your Majesty,” blushed the one with the long, silky strand of brunette hair knotted at the neck. It fell across her right shoulder. “It must be tiresome to weed through nobleman who seek to secure you only for political advantage and a crown. Tell me, do any of your marriage prospects seem promising at this juncture at all?”

“I don’t know? It’s difficult to say,” Caroline replied with a sigh, glancing wistfully at a space between the trees where the shadows lingered. 

“Prince Tyler of Italy is handsome and exceedingly fond of country sports like shooting and riding, and Prince Enzo St. Jean is uproariously entertaining. He teaches me the most scandalous French phrases and never shies away from an opportunity to indulge me in a reel, often leaving me breathless with laughter. I certainly enjoy their company. Like them both, even, but…marriage?” she shakes her head and frowns to denote her unwillingness to consider such an idea.

“It is difficult to balance duty with inclination, no? In my experience—”

“Oh, hush up Elena. None of us want to hear another droll tale about your conflicting, ever-transferring feelings for the unremarkable viscounts, Stefan and Damon. I believe we heard enough of that rubbish prior to your engagement to Lord Stefan, don’t you? Besides,” the woman’s brown-eyed doppelgänger added with a smirk and a keen flicker of her lashes, “don’t forget they both courted me for a time, too.”

“As if you’d let her forget such a thing, Kat.” Shaking her head, the lady with the golden-brown skin and bright white smile to the right of the Queen said, “Don’t forget we already know you’re an unapologetic coquet. And that you probably always will be.”

“Touché, Bon. Touché.” She winked. “But being chased by suitors is half the fun of coming out in society, after all.”

“Says the ‘mournful’ widow.”

Unbothered by this slight, Katherine shrugged. 

“The Baron was an eel who deserved his early demise. Besides, life would be insipid were I not to partake in its pleasures.”

“Where does that leave my poor brother, Elijah, whenever you’re through scandalizing him, I wonder?” mused the stately blonde on the farthest right horse. She twitched up her eyebrow almost in warning, appraising her friend.

“He’s a duke and the leader of the Hybrid government, Rebekah,” the first girl, Lady Elena, said with a pursed look and a straightening of her shoulders. She pulled her reins tighter. “I’m sure with his impressive intellect and good breeding, he’ll prove himself to be resistant to my cousin’s wily charms.”

“Ladies, ladies. If I were you, I wouldn’t be so smug or dismissive about the attachment Duke Mikaelson and I share…” Katherine drawled complacently, knowledge flashing behind her smile.

While Lady Elena gaped in shocked outrage and Lady Bonnie pressed a glove to her mouth, stifling a giggle, Lady Rebekah muttered a stream of ‘ _heaven forbid_ ’s’ and ‘ _this cannot possibly be_ ’s’ under her breath.

“Does that mean the two of you have, um, reached an understanding?” the Queen said with interest. It’d be a surprise to them all, surely, for she was not the kind of woman to be ensnared easily by a man—fortune, title, sprawling estate, or not.

Before providing an answer, however, Lady Katherine kicked a spur and took off at agallop to head deeper into the thickening forest. She glanced back over her shoulder only long enough to say, “Perhaps if you can catch me before I jump all the snowdrifts in Mystic Park, I’ll reveal all to you.” 

“You’re on!” the girls’ voices echoed in challenge.

Despite the chill, Caroline inhaled the freshness of the air with relish, watching as white puffs of breath left her mouth while in hasty pursuit of her friend. She cleared another downed log with an effortless grace and embraced the rhythmic plod of her horse’s hooves as they pushed her forward, and ahead. The smell of pine and dirt filled her nostrils, low-hanging twigs snapping against the fabric of her tailored sleeves as she maneuvered around tight bends or plunged straight through small gaps in the thicket to gain an edge. Smiling, she tasted the minty flavor of the wind when it clattered her teeth because she couldn’t stop shivering, because she couldn’t keep her stomach from fluttering in the moments she felt as if she were flying—soaring openly over earth, people, and sky. 

No one was there to hook her ‘round the elbow to admonish her with a hissed, “ _You mustn’t, you mustn’t_.” Nothing but the bumps ahead slowed her down. Nothing was before her but ecstasy, and the open arms of free fall. 

It wasn’t often the Queen was permitted to indulge freely in the rush of her senses, after all. So she made sure to take advantage of all these trifling little allowances when she could, letting all her tangled thinking fade away into the instinctual and unconscious thump of her heartbeat. Giving herself leave to look. To reach out or touch. To feel all that convention and etiquette bid her to deny herself. 

She realized, too, as ice prickled at her forehead and blonde tendrils swept across her vision like a blindfold, the path before her blurring into shapes and sounds and smells with no solid form besides that of whooshing, tilted space, that she yearned for the kind of freedom to follow her heart which her royal responsibilities would not allow at this time. Or worse, perhaps, would not permit in this noble life at all. 

But she knew what she wanted. Obstinate, strong, astute, and with a will that was all hers to own, she would fight for it.

Snow continued to drift from the sky overhead, falling a little steadier against her back now, a little heavier, and it spread out across the foreground like a perfect ivory blanket waiting to be trampled full of hoof prints. Lady Katherine eventually relented her pace and idled back toward Queen Caroline and the rest of her companions. Content in the knowledge that she was more or less uncatchable, but anxious to return to the warmth of the hearth before they all caught cold. And while Caroline was loath to end their outdoor excursion to return to her formidable and balmy palace cage, she knew she still needed to read through some plans of state and her friends wanted to dress for dinner soon, anyway.

“I heard Sir Saltzman insinuate to Lord Parker at dinner the other day, that he believed you’d make a match soon, Your Majesty,” Lady Bonnie imparted as they neared the stables. 

“Yes, well…” she frowned. “That is what is expected of me, is it not?”

“From your tone, I gather that information is unfounded then?” 

Caroline’s brow furrowed as she considered how best to answer.

“My advisors thrill in reproaching me on the matter of my marriage, that much is true—yes. Especially now that Mother is far too ill to perform her duties and has stepped down, giving rule of the kingdom over to me.” 

“What is the issue of your ruling alone again?” Lady Elena asked, genuinely clueless. 

“According to them, an unmarried queen is _‘not only unpardonable but dangerous to political stability_ ,’ ” the Queen said, mimicking the gentlemen’s low postured voices and pomposity with an eye roll. 

“Outrageous! Unpardonable, too,” Lady Bonnie said, displeased.

“It’s more predictable and presumptuous than anything, I’m afraid.” Caroline’s shoulders tensed and she let out an irritated sigh, gripping the bridle harder as her jaw clenched. She lifted her chin so as to combat the indignity she felt screaming in the cave of her throat. “Most men in this country believe I need a husband to tame me, someone to…control me.” 

Katherine and Bonnie both sneered at this. They took no pains to conceal their contempt for pretentious, meddlesome men who aimed to manipulate, then puppetize, their twenty-year-old monarch like she were made of nothing but strings for them to yank. Women were not playthings. And they never would be.

“Preposterous!” Lady Rebekah said. She then scoffed for extra measure. “Your merciful trade and immigration deals in conjunction with Nik’s military success in the Quarterlands have brought more peace here than we’ve known in a decade! What need have you for any man besides my brother?”

“Precisely,” Katherine concurred. “With a trusted champion, defender, and friend like him by your side already, I trust you need no husband at all.”

Sliding down from her mount, the Queen tilted her head back toward the trees and cracked a small smile when she perceived the flash of a blue-gold blade shining through the falling snow.

“Sir Niklaus is enough man for me to handle, indeed. I require nothing more, I assure you. No one else.”

“Is this the primary reason for your St. Valentine’s Ball in a fortnight, then?” inquired Lady Elena, redirecting the discourse a little. “To select a husband and quiet the kingdom-wide grumbling?”

“I shall let the the pressuring fools believe that to be my aim, yes. But mostly…mostly the ball is something elegant, diverting, and lovely. For me. For us all.” 

“And, oh,” Caroline trilled with a twitch of her lips, brightening considerably as she untied her hat from her head and led her mare into its stall with a jaunt in her step, “oh, just you wait until you see the magnificence I have planned!”

__

Man.

Bastard.

Warrior.

Wolf.

Shadow.

Sir Niklaus was all the singular nouns that meant isolation and thick castle walls so high no one climbed his stone exterior with rope, hands, or shoes, let alone tried to peer behind it—into the windowed darkness within. He folded himself into crevasses as if he belonged to them. The depths almost chaining him by the soul so he was free to hide in plain sight as he moved. Like a specter, he slipped through walls and disappeared into curtained corners largely unseen, the whole world insensible to his silent and piercing scrutiny because it could feel him only in the little raised hairs he awoke when he stalked close enough to exhale against the back of someone’s neck. Disbanding the danger a person posed with a _crack_ one barely felt and never heard.

He wore secrecy and invisibility like a second skin. Not one peep, not one glimmer of light escaping from his uniformed shape. He trained himself in artifice until victory rolled off his smirking lips without him needing to speak a single word. He learned what it meant to hunt: how thirsty and throat-scratching the waiting tasted when he was the predator, with just himself to feed. Never more than one whispery, pleading mouth throughout the day to heed. Only his own.

Alone in his dark tower life, Niklaus was a low blue-burning flame with nothing except time at his disposal and a knightly trade which could clank and grind that lingering, lonely _thump_ of his heart away into cinders. Which it had. He _did_. He did the moment his father learned of his illegitimacy and disinherited him, throwing him into the streets by the coattails like a gentleman beggar, daring him to either make his own way in society or starve amidst the filth. 

He chose the former without hesitation, if only to incense Mikael more. He’d excised all caring from his chest with a butterknife that hapless day to sacrifice warmth for spite, to trade heart for head, to armor his body with steel instead of only skin so nothing could injure him again. And he’d embroidered himself back together with the navy-gold metal of the Queen’s Guard without glancing back at the father he’d lost. At the man who had always despised him for no good reason.

He’d sharpened and hardened himself at an astonishing pace, whittling down his edges until he was all blade. Until he was an all-imposing arsenal which opposing forces trembled to behold because he was all brute grace and cold edges which no one could puncture. _Untouchable Niklaus,_ soldiers everywhere called him behind his back, their voices pitched in a mixture of fear, respect, and incredulity, _the Iron-Hearted Sir._ He considered them not. 

He’d sacrificed vulnerability easily then…all too happily…with no gritting or gnashing of teeth. There were no regrets, no flickers of uncertainty in his mind—

_Once_.

But that was then. It was before. Too many worthless priorities and vendettas ago to matter.

Nowadays, he was all cut up beneath his breast plate. He was bleeding with questions, with ‘ _but_ ’s’ and ‘ _I wonder if_ ’s,’ with adrenaline rushes, with pesky flapping butterflies he couldn’t catch before more of them slid from his stomach like knotted intestines and drained him of all serenity, the indifference he once prized so smugly seeping out through his heels until he was frozen in place. Wobbling. Paralyzed. Falling, falling, falling… 

Now, he was slipping in and out of an unconscious desire to shut his eyes, to let the madness consume him so long as it was her touch singeing his insides until he could no longer breathe. He was ready to swoon into her arms and expire. He more than welcomed the opportunity.

Niklaus already knew wanting her was foolish, pointless, and insane. It was forbidden; it was dangerous and impulsive as hell. Irrational to the core of the man he was…to the man he thought he’d forged himself to become. (It was the bloody worst, frankly, because caring for her meant dying a hundred times a day, in a hundred different beautiful, maddening, abhorrent ways.)

For her, though, for this buoyant woman with orchids and diamonds in her hair and stubborn quips and riddled quarrels which caused her to lift up her nose at him, to cock her chin higher as she tapped her foot in ‘ _are you done yet?_ ’ vexation, he found he was neither terrified nor unwilling to do it…to set his heart on fire.

He couldn’t prevent it if he tried. 

Hell, he’d let her char him into a statue for the palace lawns if she offered him one more smile, one more fluttering look. He’d let her crumble his tongue to ashes in order to pilfer just one kiss from her perfect, pouty little mouth. He’d let her smite him into the ground with a spear so long as she felt his heaving chest. That fierce, crackling riot. Those branded and blazing letters of her name lighting him up from the inside like a match dropped atop an ocean of oil.

Death by her cheerful command, he believed, would taste so ripe and sweet that he’d burst with uncontainable satisfaction, and wouldn’t care a jot about meeting his demise.

What were lungs without Queen Caroline’s perky vanilla scent near enough for him to smell, anyway? Why should he not surrender to her lovely, laughing, golden-rimmed dreams? When would he be able to find a hand as soft and as forgiving as hers amid these wild lands, amid these wretched rebels whose fingernails were rotted through with greed and wickedness?

_Impossible. It could never be_. 

How could he dare to move his lips again unless she needed advice or commendation for all the good she pulled from people, dumping it into their laps for closer study; making him break oaths to both himself, and to his occupation, so he could enter a room she was in with a joke that’d soften the sorrowful burden she held too low on her shoulders but would never impart on anyone else’s. Who would blaspheme her enough to think a man wouldn’t tear out his own ribs to protect her if he could?

He already had.

He already did.

He always, always would.

__

They’d resented one another in the beginning, of course, neither one of them accustomed to such tethered proximity or difference of opinion when it came to strategies of how best to undermine Aurora the Great (as the criminal so humbly referred to herself) in the Quarterlands.

Queen Caroline valued her personal space and privacy, meaning his ever-present shadow grated on her nerves. In addition, she’d also found Sir Niklaus to be much too haughty, callous, and inflexible in his proposition to invade their newly-acquired colony with muskets and cannon fire. She loathed the idea of any of her subjects, insurgents though some of them were, cowering to their knees before her in fear instead of in courtesy or respect. Sir Niklaus had believed her naive and fanciful if she thought peace could be achieved through cheerful treatise chit-chat over a tray of tea in the Augustine Greenhouse. 

Both headstrong in their own ways, they’d bickered and bantered like a pair of growling dobermans. Sometimes shouting at one another so loud the paintings in the Hall of Predecessors trembled against the walls.

“This is war! Open rebellion of this magnitude must be crushed by strength and force alone. That is the only way to maintain control! The. Only. Way.” 

“Otherwise—” he’d said, jaw clenched, knuckles whiter than bone, “otherwise this entire kingdom…your reign (not to mention the pampered little princess lifestyle of which you’ve grown exceedingly fond throughout your lifetime) will be overthrown by a horde of treasonous peasants!”

“Why must you act as if the whole country will descend into anarchy if I attempt diplomatic negotiations first?”

“Because it bloody _will._ Is that what you want?” he asked. “Do you wish to be remembered as Careful Queen Caroline, the monarch who was too weak to quell an uprising?”

Placing her hands on her hips, reeling, Caroline offered him a smile so piercing it could’ve sliced him in half.

“Your scare tactics won’t work on me, you know. I won’t be manipulated.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Pity that,” Niklaus said with an unapologetic sigh, “considering I’m right and all.” 

“Wanting to show empathy and consideration toward the angry, starving, unheard people of this world is _not_ weak, sir!”

“Says who? You?” 

She baulked at this.

“Have you no heart? No compassion? Because I certainly do, and I believe I owe them the opportunity to settle this dispute with words instead of guns. They’re afraid and desperate;” she said, “they’re looking for someone who will hear their pleas, consider their demands, offer them hope for a better tomorrow. What kind of ruler would I be if I didn’t at least try to help?”

“One more likely to win, I’d wager.”

“Merciful qualities are admirable and encouraged in anyone, but especially in a queen. And how dare you—” Caroline’s eyes narrowed “—how dare you attempt to imply otherwise,” she said jabbing at his chest.

“Do you think Aurora will show you mercy in this fight?” Voice low, he snickered. Then he leaned in to let her finger poke the wolf emblem on his armor. “She’d sooner put your head on a pike. And I promise you…yes, I promise you she wouldn’t lose a moment of sleep over it.”

“I am no simpleton, thank you. I know what’s at risk here,” she spit back.

“Then be sensible and attack! Or do you care so little for your own life that you’re willing to die to remain open-hearted toward unruly citizens?”

“Of course I care!” she said in a piqued tone, her nostrils flaring. “But I care about their lives, too. Just as much as mine. And I shall neither forsake them nor my principles for anyone, least of all for some devious warrior like you—do you understand?” 

“It’s your funeral, sweetheart,” Niklaus grumbled as he’d turned and stalked away.

They’d both underestimated the other’s skills in their respective professions at first, but not for long. The Queen had demonstrated to him with her outreach to Sir Marcellus Gerard of Bourbony, an ambassador from deep in the Quarterlands, for instance, that she could sway with shrewd sweetness, that she knew how to make political gains for her country with calm and well-articulated diplomacy. As a result of these maneuverings, Caroline had managed to reach trade and immigration deals with the Quarterlands which benefited the United Falls economically, socially, and legislatively. Not one droplet of blood spilt anywhere. 

It was a remarkable feat to witness. Impressive, truly impressive.

Similarly, Sir Niklaus had showed her the vileness of Aurora’s ambition when he’d defended Caroline from a would-be assassin: jumping before her to absorb a bullet in his armored abdomen as she and her mother ambled through Mystic Park one evening. He’d disarmed the man responsible with a single shot from his revolver. Dragging him into the castle dungeons shortly thereafter for questioning then execution.

Hunting down the traitorous Aurora when he’d recovered, he saw to the beheading justice she’d not only earned but deserved. But he did so only after he’d rounded up the rest of her followers, one-by-one, and forced her to hear how unapologetically they betrayed her. He made her watch as they fell before their patient Queen to kiss the marble near her feet, spilling all of the Quarterlands’ mutinous secrets and perfidy, pleading for Caroline to show them clemency. 

“Listen,” she’d said as she perched near his bed in the infirmary, all too conscious of his wound from that madman, Sir Tristan de Martel, “I’m declaring a truce, okay?”

“What for?”

“It’s simple. I no longer wish to fight with you.”

Shifting back against the pillows, his stitches tugged and he licked his tongue across his teeth to repress a grimace, “Somehow I find that incredibly hard to believe, love.”

“Why’s that?”

“Arguing with me has become an art form to you. Tell me you wouldn’t miss the creative expression,” he said, smirking, “that witticism’d spark you derive when putting me in my place?”

“Confiding in you could become an art of its own, you realize,” Caroline countered. She blinked at him sharply: with challenge. “But only if you’d give me leave enough to try.”

“That is what a husband or a prince is for, is it not, Ma’am? Not a soldier.”

“But I haven’t got a husband or a prince, have I? I’ve only got you.”

“How unfortunate for you then,” he said. 

Despite rolling her eyes at his disgruntled tone, she reached forward across the sheets to slide her hand over his and to stroke his knuckles sweetly, tenderly. She regarded him with a slight tilt of her head. No hint of her usual hostility or exasperation was there; because, strangely, her mouth curved upward before it broke open into a wide blooming smile so warm, and new, it shined like the spring sun. 

Niklaus, unused to such attentions or expressions, caught his breath. His legs melting into the mattress. And his tongue, ordinarily so cutting, so debasing toward others, for he was much too practiced in the skill of retaliation, dried of words entirely.

“Anyway, since you launched yourself in front of my almost-murderer like a true knight—like the unbelievable fool you are,” the Queen reproached him all dewy, flashing eyes and appreciative wrist-squeezes, “I thought I’d endeavor to change things between us. Marginally improve things, if I can.”

He parted his lips, but remained unable to speak.

“War between us is not what I desire.” 

“Then what do you want?” he said.

“I thought—” she breathed, “I thought perhaps we could learn how to listen, communicate, and esteem as well as challenge one another? It would be nice to have someone I could rely on, someone I could learn from, too, seeing as I’m a novice at this crown business. I need allies, sir, not more enemies. Plus, I hope we’d…you know, come to trust each other in time.”

A blush colored Caroline’s cheeks as she spoke. She glanced out the window in an effort to disguise her discomposure. He wasn’t sure why, but Niklaus found her eye-avoiding unease to be rather endearing. 

“Now, then,” she said, perking up a bit as she turned back to pat his hand in an amicable gesture, “that doesn’t sound so awful, does it?” 

All remaining harshness leaked out of him the moment she folded her hand inside of his, a thread of hope resting between their touching palms. He sighed, 

“That doesn’t sound awful at all, actually.” 

“Really?”

“Really,” Sir Niklaus agreed in a soft voice, surprising himself.

“Good, because I—” she gnawed on her bottom lip; stared down at their slowly intertwining fingers which seemed to click together like magnets, “I believe we’d work better together, you see. As a…as a cohesive unit.”

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, ignoring that thumping in his breast because it pounded in an arrhythmia he no longer recognized, Sir Niklaus dimpled as he forced her to meet his gaze. 

“Comrades, then?” he’d asked as he extended his right hand like a gentleman.

“Comrades,” she’d smiled, shaking on it. 

When days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, and months encroached upon a year, their alliance escalated from that of camaraderie into something different: unraveling intimacy and understanding between them in ways that required nothing more than a nod or a scratch of the neck to set plans into motion, a squinting look becoming a decision made between them but never needing to be uttered out loud. Words transformed into an accessory they almost didn’t need. Their minds were aligned; their hearts were so in sync they felt entangled. It seemed as if they were…tethered together somehow.

They grew into something bigger. 

Closer. 

Deeper. 

Bolder.

Grander.

Their relationship became symbiotic in practice, clutching in nature. It was something full of tinderhooks that pierced the soul and stung like hell because it dug in with roots unlikely to be removed. Classified material, histories, and emotions shuffled back-and-forth between their lips and ears like tomes of prose to reveal secrets that only they two would share in a life which felt bereft of choice or privacy. 

They weren’t simply comrades any longer, were they? _No_. No, they’d transformed into something more meaningful, something damning to them both: _confidants_.

As a member of the Queen’s Guard, you see, Sir Niklaus had already sworn an oath to protect and defend his monarch until Death claimed him. It was his honor; it was his duty. How this detached duty to the crown had transformed into a steadfast and irrevocable devotion to Caroline Forbes, the reigning Queen of the United Falls, however—

That was the conundrum he now faced, was it not? 

**Author's Note:**

> I took a few historical liberties, but I tried to stick to 19th century convention the best I could. This took longer to flush out that I’d originally expected, so it's not done yet and will have more parts. (Obviously lol). Let me know what you think.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
